Chapter 15
LILA
T uesday it's here, and my reflection stares back at me from the polished glass of Veritas's lobby doors—a nervous stranger in Tessa's borrowed charcoal suit.
I tug at the sleeves one more time, adjusting the fitted jacket that hugs my body in all the right places.
The tailoring screams "professional journalist who definitely knows what she's doing," but my insides are pure jelly.
"Get it together, Marks," I mutter, taking a deep breath that doesn't quite reach my lungs.
The Veritas building towers above me, all sleek glass and steel, practically reeking of prestige and power—exactly what I need for my resume.
If I can just land this internship, I might actually have a shot at becoming a real journalist instead of perpetually explaining the difference between whiskey and bourbon to eternal drunks.
My phone buzzes in my bag, startling me out of my mental pep talk. I fish it out, expecting a good luck text from Tessa.
Instead:
Dane: Good morning. What did you decide about me?
My stomach does that annoying little flip it's been doing since our date—hell, since the moment he walked into The Old Haunt with that penetrating stare that strips away my every defense.
What did I decide about him? That he's dangerous in every way possible? That when he pressed me against my wall, I wanted him until I didn't? That the second he backed off when I panicked, he proved he was nothing like Mr. Colton?
I stare at the message, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
In the middle of something important. Talk later.
No. Too dismissive.
Still thinking.
Too vague.
About to walk into an interview, can't talk now.
Better, but still not right.
"Fuck it," I whisper, silencing my phone and shoving it back into my bag without sending a reply. Dane Wolfe and his questions can wait. This interview can't.
I straighten my shoulders, crank up my confidence to at least a six out of ten, and pull open the door to my future.
The lobby hits me with a blast of climate-controlled air that smells faintly of money. The receptionist, all perfect blond waves and impossibly white teeth, directs me to the 22nd floor with a fake smile.
As the elevator rises, my heart rate climbs with it. By the time the doors slide open with a soft ding, I'm practically vibrating with nervous energy.
This is it. This is my shot. Dane, The Old Haunt, even Tessa's warnings about how competitive this internship is… it all fades away.
Time to become who I'm meant to be.
The 22nd floor is all white walls, glass accents, and employees who look like they've never had a bad hair day in their lives. A thin woman with immaculate box braids leads me to a conference room, her heels making precise clicks against the marble floor.
"Wait here," she says. "They'll be ready for you shortly."
When she opens the door, my carefully constructed confidence evaporates. A long mahogany table stretches before me with five people seated around it like a firing squad. Five. Nobody mentioned a panel interview.
Fuck me sideways. I prepared for one person, not the Supreme Court.
I smooth invisible wrinkles from my skirt, grip my portfolio tighter, and take the lone chair facing them. The air feels thin up here, or maybe that's just my lungs forgetting how to function.
"Ms. Marks, welcome to Veritas." The woman at the center smiles, all professionalism and calculated warmth. "I'm Vanessa Holt, Executive Editor."
They go around the table with introductions. Two more women, two men. Editorial Director. Senior Producer. Head of Digital Content. My brain frantically tries to memorize names while maintaining what I hope is a poised, not-about-to-vomit expression.
Then the last guy speaks. "Brian Langford, Special Projects Investor." His voice is warm honey, and his smile has probably closed a thousand deals.
"It's a pleasure to meet you all," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "Thank you for the opportunity."
Vanessa tilts her head. "Your application was quite impressive for someone just starting their graduate work. Tell us why investigative journalism matters to you personally."
Oh, I don't know, maybe because a predator walked free while I was branded a liar? Because the system protects the powerful?
I take a measured breath. "I believe journalism is about uncovering truth, especially when that truth is uncomfortable. Where I'm from, I saw firsthand how stories get buried when they threaten certain people."
I ride the confidence high all the way through the rest of the interview, answering questions with a clarity my nerves don't touch.
When Vanessa asks about my ability to pursue sensitive stories, I manage not to blurt out "Well, I've been keeping my own trauma bottled up for years, so I'm basically a professional at handling difficult subjects. "
By the time we wrap up, my portfolio's been passed around, my sample articles dissected, and my theoretical ethics tested with enough hypothetical scenarios to fill a journalism textbook.
I've somehow managed to sound like a serious journalist instead of someone who mixes drinks for a living and still has to double-check obscure law terms when nobody's looking.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Marks," Vanessa says with that same practiced smile. "We'll be in touch by the end of the week."
I shake five perfectly manicured hands, thank them all with what I hope is professional enthusiasm rather than desperate pleading, and exit the conference room on legs that feel surprisingly steady.
The hallway's cool air hits my flushed face as I exhale a breath I've apparently been holding since I sat down. Holy shit, I might have actually nailed that.
I press the elevator button, mentally replaying my answers and finding—for once—nothing that makes me want to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. The little victories, right?
The elevator dings, but before I can step forward, a voice comes from behind.
"Ms. Marks."
I turn to find Brian Langford gliding toward me, his movement so smooth it's like he's on invisible wheels. Up close, he's even more polished—tailored suit, perfect hair, expensive watch. The kind of guy who orders top-shelf whiskey and actually knows how it's supposed to taste.
"Mr. Langford," I say, professional mask sliding back into place. "I'm sorry, did I forget something?"
"Not at all." His smile is perfect white teeth, but his eyes are... something else. Something that makes my skin prickle in a way I can't immediately identify. "I just wanted to tell you that I think your interview went exceptionally well."
"Oh. Thank you." The elevator doors open behind me, but I don't move.
"I was particularly impressed with your answers about investigative ethics." He leans slightly closer. "Not many young journalists understand the nuances you described."
"I appreciate that." I shift my portfolio to my other arm, creating a little more space between us without being obvious about it.
He steps into that space, pressing the elevator button again. "Between us, I think you should be the one to get the position." He winks—actually winks—and my stomach does a weird little flip that's nothing like the ones Dane causes.
"That's... very kind of you to say." I edge toward the opening elevator doors.
"I have a good eye for talent, Ms. Marks." His gaze drifts from my eyes down to my mouth, then back up again, so quickly I almost miss it. "And I think you could go very far at Veritas. With the right... mentorship, of course."
The elevator dings impatiently.
"Well, I should go," I say, stepping backward into the elevator. "Thank you again for the opportunity."
His smile never wavers. "I look forward to seeing more of you, Lila. We have more interviews to conduct, but I doubt anyone will even come close."
As the doors close between us, I let out a breath. Something about the way he said my name makes me want to take a shower.
But hey—at least someone on the panel liked me, right?
The elevator glides smoothly downward as I lean against its cool metal wall, letting the adrenaline of the interview drain from my system. Twenty-two floors to decompress.
But instead of relief, I feel that odd prickle crawling up my spine again. Brian Langford. Something about him just felt... off. Like finding a hair in your food after you've already eaten half of it.
"He's just an investor," I mutter to myself, rolling my shoulders to shake off the feeling. "You'll probably never even see him if you get the job."
If I get the job. The thought sends another wave of anxiety through me. I need this. Bar money barely pays for my undergrad loans and rent in this city. No matter how many extra shifts I pick up, I'm often short.
As the elevator reaches the lobby, I straighten my borrowed suit and exhale. Despite the vibe from Langford, I can't help but feel a spark of hope. This internship could be my ticket out of pouring shots to financial solvency.
"Bye-bye, perpetual broke bitch status," I mutter, pushing through the revolving door.
The New York air hits me, carrying the promise of possibility. For once, my future doesn't seem like a hazy mess of student loans and late-night shifts. Maybe, just maybe, I'm on the verge of becoming the hard-hitting journalist I've always dreamed of being.
"Watch out, world," I grin. "Lila Marks is coming for you."